


Litany

by spirograph



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-05
Updated: 2005-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had never meant for it to escalate the way that it did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litany

**Author's Note:**

> Violent displays of affection. Bad dress sense. Compulsive gun slinging. Excessive mentioning of beefy arms. Danger!fetish.

John had never meant for it to escalate the way that it did. He'd been observing Ronon for weeks, eyes inexplicably focused on the way his arm muscles flexed as he trained, on the astonishing ways in which he exerted his strength. He'd thought at first that it had just been a bit of the old hero worship; a case of seeing someone large and powerful and wanting to be like that, to be able to wield that kind of strength himself. 

During their off-world missions John had felt strangely unhinged being in such close proximity to the other man, wondering if perhaps he had made a mistake inviting him to join his team; occasionally he considered that maybe he didn't actually feel entirely safe in Ronon’s shadow, then reminded himself that it would probably end up being an invaluable asset; other people - _bad_ people - were sure to feel the same discomfort. 

John convinced himself that everything was fine and dandy, nothing could go wrong inside his new tight-knit band of warriors. He was confident that all of his feelings concerning Ronon were purely platonic- even when he was wearing that totally ridiculous shirt with the pointless tassels hanging off it, open just enough at the top so Ronon’s chest was exposed, and those tight animal skin pants that by rights should have been banned from existence because their rate of distraction was alarmingly high- but _that_ delusion didn’t last so long. 

John decided he could ignore those fleeting very-far-from-platonic thoughts because it wasn’t as if they _overwhelmed_ him. But then Ronon began twirling his gun all over the place and anything coherent John may have been ready to say about moral values and team building went out the window entirely. After a while it became more and more difficult to disguise the fact that every time Ronon did anything even remotely dangerous - handling knives, twisting the blades casually between his fingers, for instance - John's body temperature would rise to boiling point and he would have to excuse himself before the overpowering waves of heat flowing over his body threatened to swallow him whole. 

Ronon must have noticed; he _had_ to have noticed. There was no way he could have trained with John, spinning those damn firearms all over the show and not have detected the way John fidgeted, shifted from foot to foot, gulping down air like a damn golf ball was lodged in his throat, each time they got close enough to make body contact, tiny currents of energy zapping between them. 

He hadn't actually meant to brush past Ronon the way he had in the artillery room. He'd placed that day’s weapons of choice back in their appropriate places and moved aside to allow Ronon to do the same. Their arms had bumped, a pretty harmless interaction, and John’s entire body had jolted as if he'd grabbed a live wire. 

The next thing he knew, Ronon was seizing John by the rear of his t-shirt- hard enough that the collar choked him – brutally whirling him, pushing him back against a shelf stocked with various boxes of ammunition that rattled as John's full weight slammed into it. For a moment, John actually though his number was up; Ronon was going to kill him, right there, in the weapons room. 

Then Ronon was all but growling, “You keep _touching_ me,” fingers wrapped tightly around John’s neck. And it was absolutely fucking insane, because the whole situation should have been terrifying, but it made John impossibly aroused, and that? That wasn’t right. 

Surrounded by artillery and training mats John felt the blood flow to his brain begin to cut out and thought he was actually going to explode, or worse: pass-out. “Get _off_ me,” was the weakest, most half-assed reply John could ever have come out with, yet that’s what emerged from between his gritted teeth. Then Ronon was loosening his grasp and John was trying to look un-aroused albeit unconvincingly.

It only took a few seconds for Ronon to reach for John’s waist, to pin him stationary with the weight of his shoulder and unfasten John’s sweatpants, tilting his hand, shoving it inside the confines of John’s boxers. Ronon’s lips were suddenly so close to John’s that his heart palpitated painfully and Ronon lunged forward, lightening fast so they were kissing, Ronon’s tongue mapping every inch of John’s mouth hungrily, thrusting with a rhythm that was haphazard and completely contradictory to the one he had set against John’s erection. 

John should have stopped it, should have walked out of the room and never looked back; for a second he considered it, but Ronon was tightening his fingers around his dick, moving his hand far, far too skillfully. When they separated, both breathless, Ronon hardly made any sound at all, just panted heavily against John's shoulder, then _snarled_ when John suggest they relocate. After that John hoped to heaven that his constant mental litany of _doors lock fuck please locklockLOCKGODYES_ had translated coherently enough for Atlantis to understand. 

Then they were kissing again and tumbling ungracefully to the floor as John’s knees finally gave out; Ronon seemingly unfazed by the fact that his elbow hit the ground hard enough to bruise. John straddled Ronon’s hips then, and Ronon let him; which wasn't so unexpected ‘cause after all, the man had been on his own for seven years, and they had that in common, being alone; John had _felt_ alone for little over a year. Except for that one time with Chaya, although all that glowing light and intimate mind-sharing stuff had hardly qualified as being anything close to satisfaction. Not the way John wanted, anyway.

John gasped-laughed when Ronon literally _ripped_ the t-shirt off his body without a moment’s hesitation; leaning up and biting the flesh of John’s uncovered shoulder, groaning as he did. John’s fingers instinctively found Ronon’s hair, tugging him back until all John could see were Ronon’s heavy-lidded eyes, dark and decidedly glazed.

John felt somewhat insignificant in comparison to Ronon by way of height, but he still held the advantage, shoulder burning as he pushed Ronon back and pinned his hands above his head; up till then the whole thing had been pretty intense, but that? _That_ was so hot that his stomach flipped in a hundred different directions all at once. And Ronon had lain there and taken it, all of John's un-rhythmic thrusting and groaning and in hindsight it probably hadn't looked as amazing as it felt. But there they were, practically humping each other on the weapons room floor, and John was so far gone by that stage that no army in the universe would have been able to remove his trembling body from that position. 

John actually felt like his flesh was on fire, straining, being torn apart by the simple fact that Ronon’s (comparatively _massive_ ) hands had slid down the back of his pants – which had managed to survive the ravages of the whole experience - and were gripping onto his _ass_ encouraging him to thrust _harder_ and _faster_ and he could have stayed like that forever; however, when it came down to it, John was so light-headed that if he’d done that for too much longer he really would have passed out. 

So the next maneuver he made was far from beautiful, scrambling backwards between Ronon’s thighs and tugging at the other mans pants urgently until Ronon’s hands batted John’s fingers away and unfastened his belt buckle himself. 

After that it was plain sailing – which, in fact, meant that John had his mouth full of hot, hard flesh, surrounded by the almost intoxicating scent of sweat and sex and Ronon’s hands were fisting his hair, clutching onto the strands like the world would end if he ever let go. 

It was all kinds of awkward when oblivion momentarily relinquished its grip on John’s mind and he realized he hadn’t given head in years: his technique was probably _seriously_ lacking; then he had a panic-stricken moment of confusion as Ronon jerked backward, leaned forward, grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him sideways onto his back. It was unfortunate that the time for articulate retribution had passed, because John had the good presence of mind to give Ronon an earful – until Ronon was earnestly yanking John’s pants the rest of the way off, lips sealing over the head of his cock and producing unbelievable hot-wet-friction, sucking John off like he was fucking _candy_.

John caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his vision, which, as it turned out, was Ronon leisurely running his hand along the length of his own cock. When John recognized the action for what it was, his whole body shuddered involuntarily and it seemed oddly appropriate that as climax hit, his gaze should land on a box full of grenades resting on the shelving unit above his head, filling him with a bizarre mixture of horror and complete and utter elation. 

The best John could come up with afterwards, still lying inelegantly sprawled on the floor and besieged by afterglow was “holy _crap_ ,” and Ronon seemed satisfied with that, grinning as he wiped the come off his hand with what remained of John’s mangled shirt.


End file.
